I know it’s inherently subjective, and that’s part of the fun, but on Sunday at the Grand Slam in Williamsburg, the last storyteller was the clear crowd favorite AND host favorite, and didn’t win (it was clearly too late for the storyteller to win after two judge-teams weighed in, so emcee Dan Kennedy allowed himself to scoff at the low scores)
Two stories tied for first, one of which was lovely and deserving, but the other was one of those stories which only wins because it touches a sentimental chord and not because of craft or thematic relevance or originality in telling; (sentimental topics including childhood innocence, parents’ or grandparents’ dying wisdom, puppies, stuff like that often sneak ahead in scoring). It had the sound of good story and yet was banal and unrealized.
The last storyteller was an orthodox Jewish man in his 20s, entirely awkward and endearing, who feels very much the misfit in his community, getting drunk at his umpteenth wedding while sitting mostly alone; he seems to intermittently hurl himself at life with comical results (“I’m adventurous but I don’t have courage”). He impulsively finds a ticket for burning Man online, knowing almost nothing about what’s in store for him, and flies to Las Vegas to share a ride with a stranger to Black Rock Desert (“She was like a foodie. But with drugs.”)
Mostly he feels confused at the event (“you think, reading the Bible as much as I have, I’d have some preparation for surviving in the desert… but no.”) he gets on the ferris wheel, but before it starts, he’s about to chicken out (which he has done his whole life), a stranger jumps in with him at the last minute to accompany him and off they go. As he soars over the sprawl of the ‘intentional city’ of 70,000 strangers, in that moment he feels more connected to other people than ever before… [Gentle, awkward drop of the mic.]
There’s a type of story that holds your attention pleasantly, and a type that makes you want to be more human in yourself and to others, and BE in the world and redeem your doubts, pull meaning from the interstices and look for color in the corners of your eyes … he didn’t win, but sent us out into the night with that feeling.
– Bicoastal writer Daniel Housman works hard and enjoys the very best of both Los Angeles and New York.
